You've Proved There's Something To Prove
by Amory Vain
Summary: In which Sylar was the one to rescue Adam from the cemetery. Season 2 AU that will be three parts. Sylar/Adam; warnings for cigarettes, dub-con, burns, domination, bukkake, mind games. Each chapter heading will include individualized warnings.
1. The One with the Cigarettes and Sadism

**The One with the Cigarettes and Sadism [[856 Words]]  
**_Heroes  
_Sylar/Adam  
Post season two.  
Cigarettes, dub-con, burns, domination, bukkake.

* * *

Adam still smokes like he's mortal, Sylar notes: lips pursed around the paper-wrapped filter as he inhales apologetically, motions almost twitchy in their practiced speed. That wry, could-be-guilty smirk towards passerby as if _yeah, it's a nasty habit. Yeah, it'll kill me one day, but what can you do?_

Even indoors he's meticulous, tapping ash into a dish on the edge of the desk every few seconds as he stands by the window. He looks out, exhaling smoke through the corner of his mouth and then going back for more like an addict. And _this_ man thought he could rule the world.

Sylar crosses the room slowly, waiting for Adam to see his reflection in the glass and turn. When he raises an eyebrow, waiting, Sylar speaks. "You're all talk, Adam Monroe."

"How's that?" comes the sharp response (irritation masked by cool amusement), and Sylar smiles, baring too many teeth.

"Despite all your claims to the contrary, you're still more man than immortal. You're so—" He drops the sentence, because why tell when you can show, and reaches for Adam's wrist as his hand rises to his mouth. Actions speak louder than words, but Adam is remarkably quiet when Sylar plucks the cigarette from his fingers to extinguish it on bare flesh.

He hisses and jerks back, but Sylar holds him, scrubbing his thumb over the healing skin by Adam's singed cuff. "What the _fuck_?"

"You're no god," He growls, tightening his grip, and kisses him. Adam doesn't pull away, but doesn't respond, either, and Sylar breaks the kiss a moment later and stands close, breathing against Adam's jaw. His lips brush the other man's skin when he speaks.

"Four hundred years, Adam, and what have you accomplished? You've been beaten, betrayed, stabbed, blown up, held captive, and buried alive—by _Hiro Nakamura_, no less. I've done in two years what you've managed in four centuries." He smiles as he speaks, feeling Adam bristle at the words.

Adam scowls but looks at him with something like understanding (which it isn't, because he can't know, not really, not yet), stepping back and reaching into his jacket for the pack of cigarettes. "If I were of no use to you, Mr. Sylar, you'd have left me in the ground." He thumbs the package open one-handed before Sylar reacts, knocking it from his grasp. They both watch it drop to the ground.

"I just want you to know where we stand, you and I." Adam _would_ understand tonight, would know how their relationship (what he'd mistakenly called a _partnership_ in the graveyard that evening) was going to be. He looks at him, expression unreadable for once, and Sylar nods at the object on the floor, hand resting heavily on Adam's shoulder. "Well? Pick it up."

He'd almost prefer he be clumsy, but Adam's lithe, graceful as he falls to his knees and collects his cigarettes, turning the package over in his hands before setting it back down. He looks up at Sylar with a wry smile, eyebrow raised. "All you had to do was ask, you know."

"Those in power don't ask; they take." Adam's hands are at his fly and he slaps them away, unzipping his jeans himself. Adam takes it too well, too calmly when he cups the back of his head and pulls him forward, and Sylar has to keep himself from hurting him, twisting his fingers in fine blonde hair and just jerking him close, quick and rough.

"I shouldn't be surprised you're good at this. Of course you, _oh_—" he's panting, watching his cock slide in and out between those full lips, obscene wet noises and the way Adam gags when Sylar makes him take it all, too fast. "Of course you would know how to ingratiate yourself with your betters."

And he's so close, it's so good and so much _power_, fucking Adam's mouth and—Adam pulls back, wrenching himself from Sylar's grasp and wraps a hand around his cock, and before he finds the words to protest Adam speaks. "Come on my face," he breathes, mouth impossibly swollen and he's looking up at Sylar, eyes so bright and blue and he can't stop, it's too fucking fantastic and he comes, spurting lines of white across Adam's cheek and jaw and "Jesus, oh god—"

He loses himself for a moment, vision spotting and euphoric, and when he comes back a few seconds later, Adam is still on the floor, sitting back and wiping come off himself in slow swipes. He catches Sylar's eye and smirks, cleaning his fingers on the carpet before pulling a cigarette from the pack beside him. "Every time, that line works."

He lights the cigarette with a flourish and takes a drag, blowing smoke up at Sylar. "That's quite a sadistic streak you've got there. No matter; I've seen worse.

"In fact," he grins, watching Sylar's face flush, seeing the way his hands curl into fists, "I think I'm going to quite like you."

"That makes one of us." Sylar turns away, disgusted. Adam just smiles and manages somehow to look superior, wreathed in enigma and blue-coloured smoke.


	2. Impasse

**Impasse [[926 Words]]**  
_Heroes_  
Sylar/Adam  
post-Volume Two.  
Dub-con, cigarettes, blood, domination, rough sex, mind games.

* * *

"Take off your clothes."

Adam just looks at him from where he sprawls on the bed, unreadable half-smile in place, and reaches for his buttons. He crosses his arms and watches the man undress, notes the bruise he'd planted on his jaw as it fades and disappears. He wonders briefly how hard he'd have to hit to make a mark stick, but then Adam is naked and he climbs onto the bed to pin him down, to own that expanse of skin.

"You're a slut," he growls, biting at Adam's mouth as he gropes for his cock, pumping the hardening flesh roughly while he moves to work a new series of bruises along his throat. Adam pants but doesn't speak; he never talks in these moments, has to rob him of the satisfaction of beating him into silence. So Sylar speaks, feeling all the time that he's conceding something, allowing Adam an undeserved victory with his words. "You've got no self-respect, do you?" Not a question. He slaps Adam's hands away when he reaches to pull at Sylar's clothes.

He's in control now, he _is_, and Adam has to realize this, has to know by now—"Immortality is not the same as invincibility." He kisses him again, fucking Adam's mouth open with his tongue. Adam rewards him with what might be a moan, and Sylar pulls away. "Turn over."

Adam complies without hesitation, on his knees and propped up on his elbows, shoulders flexing and back curving attractively as he moves. He doesn't look back, but Sylar sees him tense as he shifts into position, the sound of his fly unzipping loud in the quiet room. He pauses, taking a moment to run his hands over the slope of Adam's ass, forcing his legs apart with more force than necessary. "I could do anything right now and you'd have to take it, wouldn't you." He doesn't try to keep the mockery from his voice.

Adam only laughs, softly, in response, and he hates that sound, enjoys choking it off as he forces himself inside without preparation. It _hurts_, he's too tight, too dry and hot and the _friction_, but it has to be hurting Adam more, he decides, watching the way he fists his hands in the sheets, knuckles going pale. Still, he doesn't speak; Sylar hears nothing but his own harsh breaths over Adam's shaky exhalations.

"I wish you would—" Sylar cuts off that sentence, grits his teeth and keeps moving, keeps fucking Adam into the mattress. The way in and out is eased by blood, more with every thrust, and there are red stains coloring the front of his jeans. Adam keeps refusing to acknowledge him. He won't make a sound, so Sylar tangles his blood-slicked fingers in blonde hair and pulls him back, cups Adam's jaw and kisses his open mouth.

If pressed, Sylar would say he likes the way the other man looks best right _now_, face painted red with his own blood. He smiles and licks at a copper-flavored handprint. "I'm hurting you," he says.

Adam finally speaks, then, turns his head to hide the beginnings of a smirk and says, "I've had worse."

Sylar can't help but snarl at that, draws back and knocks Adam's arms out from under him, pressing his face to the mattress. "No, you haven't."

He fights him then, struggles to raise his head and breathe, but it's no use. He has to learn, Sylar has to teach him—and he won't reward defiance. He lays both hands on the back of Adam's neck, holding him down while he moves.

_Now_ Adam's talking, muffled curses and protests lost in the sheets, and Sylar laughs, keeps thrusting. He works his way in and out, groaning in satisfaction and "Maybe I'll kill you. It wouldn't stick, but maybe I would. It wouldn't be the first time you've suffocated."

Adam bucks, and Sylar lets him up just enough to get a breath, just enough to gasp one word. "Sylar—"

"Beg me for it," he growls. "Or don't. Actions speak louder, anyway." He leans down, shirt clinging to blood and sweat on Adam's back. He reaches for the other man's cock, trapped against the mattress, and jerks him off until he comes, rocking into his hand. Adam's whole body spasms and tightens for him, for _Sylar_, and he follows him over, gasping and closing his teeth on Adam's shoulder because it's so good, so perfect and all for _him_.

His shirt and jeans are a bloody mess when he rolls off the body below him. They're ruined, Adam has ruined his clothes, but all's fair, isn't it? He looks over as Adam sits up, streaked with blood but already recovered from his injuries, flushed and healthy-looking. "Well," he stretches and surveys the dismal state of their surroundings, something that can't actually be amusement pulling the corner of his mouth upward. "I don't think housekeeping will be pleased with us tomorrow."

He yawns, leans back against the headboard and reaches for the pack of cigarettes that lies discarded on the bureau. He taps one out, holding it between two fingers as he lights it and takes a drag. Adam blows a plume of smoke upward and sighs, checking the time on the wall clock. "That's twenty minutes killed; what do we do for the next hour and forty?"

"Shut up, Adam," Sylar snaps, and flicks off the light. Adam laughs, and Sylar shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to watch that glowing red ember moving in the dark.


End file.
